21. Crow
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CROW
Three days later, there is still nothing on the news.
I have been expecting it, dreading it, jerking at the slightest sound, convinced the police are going to break the door down any second.
I am eating dinner with Mum on the sofa, our plates on our laps, chicken and chips and baked beans, and I almost choke swallowing a mouthful down because every time there is breaking news or a scroll of text along the bottom of the screen, I am expecting Hugo to show up.
missing man
man uncovered at bottom of riverbed
hugo fletcher disappearance
But so far, nothing. Not that Mum notices my odd behavior.
Mum never gets involved. Starling’s parents have invited her to plenty of their parties, but she never goes.
Says she’s busy, even though she sits in the living room watching game shows all night and telling me what she’d do if she were on them.
(But one time when I filled in an application for her for Pointless she was horrified and told me to stop.) So she wasn’t in the know when Cuckoo’s mum died.
Said it wasn’t her family or her business, and stayed at home as she always does.
The only time she leaves the flat is to do shopping, and even then she hates it, rushes in and out as fast as possible.
With the news finished, she switches the channel to House of Games, resumes eating, and continues to know nothing.
I panicked when Cuckoo stabbed him. Panicked even more when the others joined in. What were they doing? Didn’t they understand they were committing murder?
But I was the one who didn’t understand. I feel it now, secure in the knowledge it has been three days and the police haven’t come knocking. They have no idea it was us and no way of knowing. I feel the power they all drew from it at the time. It’s coming to me.
Talk, talk, talk. They were right. It’s all I did. Big talk, no action.
Well, I am action now. If I can do that—kill a man and walk away—I can do anything I set my mind to.
“Last day of exams today,” Mum says, breaking me from my thoughts. She has finished her dinner now, sets it down on the coffee table. One of the legs is being held up by a stack of magazines. “I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned it.”
Last day of exams. I check my phone, and she’s right.
In my room, I have a calendar on my wall that I dutifully filled out in January, marking all of the significant dates in different colored gel pens.
Today, if I remember correctly, was turquoise.
A big moment. Today was meant to be the start of summer, the start of a whole new life.
The calendar fell apart in March, but I was still checking it, marking things off, making sure each big day was counted.
Today is the first time I’ve forgotten.
“I guess it is,” I say. “I didn’t realize.”
“How are you doing?” Mum says. “You’re not nervous about your results, are you? Because they will be perfect, you’ll see. And even if they’re not—”
“I’m not nervous,” I say quickly, though that isn’t true. Every time I think about them, my heart thumps and my palms grow slick with sweat.
To avoid her gaze, I look around. The living room hasn’t been decorated since we moved in, the landlord refusing to modernize the place.
The carpet is incredibly thin and worn down, and there are a few scuffs and stains in places.
It is the same beige as the walls, and the furniture is cheap and held together mostly by tape.
“Even if they’re not,” Mum repeats, “I’ll be proud of you. Because you worked hard.”
“Worked hard?” I shake my head. “The results are being given to us. That’s hardly the same as actually sitting exams.”
“You’ve worked hard since your very first day at school. You deserve to get good results, and I know you’ll get them. But that’s not the only route to being happy.”
Mum left school at fifteen, pregnant with me. She didn’t get any GCSEs or A levels, and the only job she’s ever had was working as a waitress, and she couldn’t even hold that down after Dad left.
“Are you happy, Mum?” I say, and it comes out meaner than I intend. She recoils as if I’ve slapped her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just . . .”
“It’s not all about measuring yourself up to someone else’s standards,” she says quietly. “Sometimes you have to think about your own standards.”
She doesn’t get it. She wouldn’t; she’s less educated than her eighteen-year-old daughter. She finds it hard enough calculating the weekly shop. Think about my own standards? What does that even mean?
“Finish your dinner before it gets cold,” Mum says, and turns away from me again.
Later, in my room, I listen out for Mum to go to bed.
Sometimes she falls asleep on the sofa, and it takes forever.
But tonight I am lucky. I hear the buzz of the ten o’clock news (still no mention of Hugo) and then the sound of her washing the dishes and getting ready for bed.
As she passes my door in the hallway, she pauses, taps on the door lightly, and calls out good night.
“Don’t stay up late,” she says through the door. “You’re looking tired at the moment.”
“Night, Mum,” I say. “And I won’t. Promise.”
On my way, I tell the group chat after I hear Mum’s bedroom door close. I have to give her a few minutes, but she’s out like a light in no time. I don’t know how a woman who does nothing all day can be so exhausted.
Goldie is the only one missing when I arrive.
We’re back at Bishop’s House, reclaiming it for good.
The others are waiting by the broken window round the side of the house, and I study them for any signs of nerves.
Sure enough, there are hints: awkward smiles, forced laughter, twitching fingers.
But there’s something else too: glee. I feel it too.
This is the first time we’ve seen each other since the murder.
We stayed apart for a few days, just in case, but nothing has come of it.
Cuckoo is particularly triumphant, sharp chin jutted upward, and it’s like she’s dressed up tonight, an attempt at makeup on her normally bare face.
Wren is the most scared, but that’s to be expected.
Her bottom lip is sore from where she’s obviously been biting it, but her nails are down to the quick too.
And Starling keeps flexing her fingers, shifting from one foot to the other, and her hair is scraped back into a ponytail, exposing her rounded face and showcasing the freckles on her ruddy cheeks.
“Nothing on the news yet,” I say. “Did anyone else watch it?”
They all nod. I’m not the only one who has been keeping track then.
“They don’t know anything,” Cuckoo says. “They’re not even investigating yet, it seems. There hasn’t been anything online either.”
“The knife?” Wren asks.
“Gone,” Cuckoo says. “Everything else too.”
“We’re getting away with it,” I say, “aren’t we?”
“Damn right.” Cuckoo slaps me on the back, making me wince. “The world knows we’re doing it a favor. Bastards like him only get justice when we deliver it.”